Sputterpub's Blog

     When I was 11, a swastika was painted on our driveway. I have a muddled memory of the event now, but I immediately understood that it was bad, it was for me, and it was frivolous.

I saw it before my parents did. I may have brought it to their attention. I know they were profoundly upset, but I sensed that was more on my behalf than on theirs.

I was not a good history student then, but I knew a bit about World War II and I’d never deny that what would come to be called the holocaust happened. My father had served in the Air Force during that war, and both parents had experienced door-blocking prejudice about neighborhoods when they were kids, colleges when teens, and jobs as young adults. Compared to their experiences my way was an easy one, and yet there was that symbol.

Like I said, I knew it was for me, I suspected it was painted by Keith-and-Steve (Detention, August 5, 2010) and there was no recurrence. I don’t think my parents complained to anyone about it; they removed it and talked to me about anti-Semitism (it was kind of like the fact-of-life discussion: a little embarrassing and mostly unnecessary by the time it occurred).

In some way I never articulated to my folks, I took the event as my responsibility. I knew I brought it on myself. I think I was talking too much about my Jewishness at school, arguing too loudly against others’ parents’ beliefs, touting.

I had a hint of confirmation about that last year. I received an email from my first beau, a guy named David from my fourth grade class. I remember chasing him in fun on the playground then, catching him by his yellow cubscout neckerchief. I recall that sixth grade double-date, David and Doug and me and ??, to a Saturday matinee at the Vogue Theater. He told me in his email that in fifth grade he traded a treasure for a junk ring on the playground, and then tried to present the ring to me with a marriage proposal. He remembers how quickly I turned him down, asserting that I’d never be able to marry him because he wasn’t Jewish.

His friend Doug called me a blowhard not long after the swastika event. I didn’t understand the term then or even after Dad tried explaining it to me, but I sure do now. Even so, and though I know I was wrong for proclaiming so many words, the painters were wronger for their act.

     When I was 9, I got kicked out of Sunday School. We lived in Chula Vista and attended a conservative synagogue, and I guess it is more accurate to say I was asked to leave class and not return. Probably I was considered disruptive, or in the whining language of my children’s teachers, “unmotivated to learn.”

Not true. I was the most motivated individual in the room. But I persisted in asking who created God.

It was a sincere question. I had taken in the story of creation as told in Genesis, I had acquired an image of God as a tall farmer-type, white-bearded and fair-minded with a tendency toward benevolence, standing on green grass beside a classic well. He was clad in divine agricultural overalls. The image begged the question: who made Him?

My teacher tried to shush me and changed the subject. I cooperated with the next lesson but then returned to my question. The teacher as much as told me to shut up already, to stop asking and move on. I couldn’t move on. I was stuck at the question. I meant no disrespect; I meant to learn more.

As the tussle continued I became angry. I’m sure my words could be interpreted as disrespectful but as far as I was concerned, that was beside the point. I was shown the door instead of enlightenment. I was asked to stop attending the class.

That wasn’t the only or last time I was told to respect stupid behavior simply because the behaver was old. I disagreed with the idea then and I persist in disagreeing. Even now, an elder myself, I don’t expect respect because of my age.

Don’t misunderstand. I am not advocating disrespect for elders. I just don’t think they should get favored status if they don’t deserve it.

I begin every relationship with respect for the other. That’s the case even if the other isn’t human. And I’m certainly going to assume that an older person, filled with so many experiences, is likely to be more wise, balanced, and worthy of respect than someone less practiced at forming judgments.

But a fool is a fool at any age. And once an individual forfeits the right to respect, she or he will have to act impressively to regain it.

  When I was young, I never heard my parents swear. I never saw my mother read a book. I thought at first that’s just the way they were, but as I grew I learned that they were adjusting their behavior because of us kids.

Of course Dad knew swear words. He was an Air Force veteran, a guy, a person. But when my brothers and I were kids and he was angry, we heard “gol dangit,” “good grief” and (really) “ye gods and little fishies.” Mom didn’t even say those.

They got angry often enough. They were an arguing couple (kitchen cabinet slammers), as often exasperated as any parents. But it was a tone of voice thing instead of curses or insults. Occasionally Dad referred to an act of ours (or Mom’s) as “stupid,” and neither of them were above accusing me of laziness, dishonesty, or a complete lack of common sense, but we never heard “f–k” or “s–t” or any damning around our home.

And once, when I was around 10, Dad’s attempt to combine anger with self-censorship cracked us up.

Of course I don’t remember how Steve and I transgressed. The consequence was a very angry father, standing near us in the living room while we sat (not quite cowering but plenty intimidated) on the floor. He was so mad his face was bright red, his neck was stiff, and veins were prominent on his brow. His arms were aimed straight down, shaking a bit, and his hands were tight fists. He opened his mouth and shouted at us: “god dingit!”

I met Steve’s eyes then. We knew we were in trouble but we started to snicker. There was a moment of deadly silence and then we dared raise our faces to Dad. He was trying hard to maintain sternness, anger, composure. But he lost it. His mouth cracked a smile. And then we all laughed.

It’s delicious, how much more vividly I remember that event than any of his rages.

As for Mom, she wasn’t a big laugher. She didn’t compete with the rest of us for the Sunday comics and she never told jokes. But it turned out she did read. As soon as we’d all left the nest the woman began devouring novels. I knew then that she never read more than a magazine while raising us simply because she was too busy being interrupted by parenthood.

They did a good job.

  When I was around 10, I gave up thumb-sucking. My parents had tried to talk or trick me into forsaking the activity for as long as I could remember, but it was fear of peers that inspired me. I was allowed to spend the night at a friend’s house by then, and I was too embarrassed about the habit to continue it.

When I was around 12 I stopped biting my fingernails. Again my parents had tried and failed, especially Mom and even to the point of painting on some vile-tasting “polish” (she glopped the tan-colored stuff on so thickly that it was quite easy for me to pick it off). I gave up the habit because I was becoming more style-conscious, and I loathed the look of fingertips bulging above bitten nails.

As I matured I acquired other undesirable habits, like escape into dietary binges, excessive consumption of chewing gum and soda, cigarettes, inactivity. I’ve managed to cure myself of those, a practice that is now called behavior modification. And here’s what I have to say about how to do it.

First off, know yourself. No How-To manual can tell you what you know best: your own self, what motivates you, what you fear, how you are.

Next, make time. You’re probably already fully occupied so the moments you’ll need for this work must be reserved (I love it when I answer the phone and my caller asks if I was doing anything…how not? I don’t know anyone who just sits there waiting for the phone to ring).

Now map your campaign. Breaking an old habit or forming a new one is similar to a military plan; it requires a strategy (which is the overall path, the part set by the general before the action starts) and also tactics (the responses in the field, to whatever obstacle or opportunity presents itself). At the least, the strategy arranges the time for work and the tactics describe the feedback.

Finally, build in some room for grief. Because the truth is, a habit is a very close friend, and losing a close friend is a grievous experience. It may take only 6 weeks to form a new habit, but it will take a full year to process the grief about what you gave up.

  When I was 45 or so, I learned what “subtext” means.

It was a lawyer who said it to me – “There’s no subtext” – on the phone, and from his context I gathered that he used the word to signify he meant what he was saying to me with no hidden or second message.

He’d recently inherited the position of managing partner from an ethical man with whom I enjoyed a satisfying business relationship. He was a different type of person than his predecessor but I didn’t know that yet; I assumed he was honest and clear.

Well it turned out he was a creep and a crook. He tried to steal time from me. We made an agreement about each of us doing our parts to terminate his company retirement plan. He was to perform his acts by a certain time and I would then do mine for a certain fee. He failed to hit his deadline. He tried to blame me for that failure, claiming his delay was owing to a question I’d already answered, and then he tried to coerce me to do the extra work necessitated by his delay, for no extra compensation. It was when he started trying to blame me (“I have no complaints about all you’ve done for us to date”) that he used that “subtext” phrase, and at first I took him at his word and continued conversing with him. But as soon as I dug my heels in and refused to do extra free work, he started ranting. He dredged up imaginary past complaints. He threatened to blacklist me.

Of course I didn’t do the extra work. Of course he made no dent in my business life. Of course he went on to build a sleazy reputation for himself.

I thought at the time, “how odd, that the very person who uses the word subtext and claims to not engage in it is doing it so much,” but that started me noticing.

I didn’t know it then, but there was a frenemy right in my small office. It wasn’t until she left and tried to make work more difficult for me and get more money than her already-unearned overpay, after she looked me in the eyes and pre-apologized for letting her husband try to bully me, that I understood how truly murky and messed up she was. I thought she was speaking wisdom when she once commented about an acquaintance: “she ought to get out of her own way and stop tripping herself.” Later I learned that the reason my co-worker knew that phrase was that it mostly applied to herself!

Beware, kids. When pithy words emerge from the mouth of a murky soul, look to the speaker. It’s really about him or her, and not about you.